


A Place to Start

by SoManyJacks



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Mabari Puppies, Minor Angst, except they're really married?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 06:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13898550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoManyJacks/pseuds/SoManyJacks
Summary: Short fic about newly-crowned King Alistair coming to terms with being married to Anora, and vice versa.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey -- I actually wrote this for the Black Emporium exchange and decided I wanted to write something else. But here it is, in case anyone needs some Alistair/Anora getting-to-know-you type stuff. This is absolutely nothing like what I normally write, but maybe someone will enjoy it, so here it is!

Politics being what they were, Anora was glad that things hadn’t turned out worse. She still had her throne, the Blight was halted, and order was gradually being restored across Ferelden. If the price she had to pay for such an outcome was to marry her late husband’s half-brother… well, she could afford it.

If she was being utterly honest with herself (a dangerous thing, not to be taken lightly) she would have admitted that she did not  _ want  _ to like Alistair. Though her marriage to Cailan had been primarily political, Anora had been fond of him. He stayed out of her way, deferring to her judgment with grace. On a personal level, he was charming and suave, and if his sense of humor was somewhat lacking, it was no great hardship. And sharing his bed (on the rare occasions that such things were done) was definitely no chore. Granted, his bed was often occupied by other women, but such things were to be expected. 

Given Alistair’s strong resemblance, Anora found the urge to dislike him was even stronger, as if anything otherwise would be doing injustice to the memory of Cailan. Luckily, Alistair had nothing of his brother’s charm, or confidence, or even competence. He’d been on the throne for, what, two weeks now, and had managed to annoy Anora practically every day. 

He was just so  _ awkward. _ He mumbled. He slouched. He tripped over his own words, and sometimes his own feet. His crown slipped to the side constantly and his hair stuck up. It was all he could do to make the most fleeting eye contact with her. It was absolutely infuriating. He’d been handed his throne on a silver platter, and yet most of the time he looked as if he thought someone was about to whack him on the nose with a roll of paper. 

Today was no better. The daily updates on the workings of the castle were a necessary evil. Boring, certainly, but not remotely taxing, or so Anora thought. 

“-- and forty barrels of mead, delivered yesterday. That concludes the report from the quartermaster. Now onto the stables….” The seneschal paused, consulting the parchment before him.

On the throne to Anora’s right, Alistair squirmed, scrunching his nose. Anora did her best to avoid rolling her eyes, forcing herself to maintain a smooth expression as the seneschal droned on. Why couldn’t the man keep still? Alistair had fought back an entire Blight. Surely sitting on a throne for half of an hour wasn’t too strenuous? 

There, he was at it again. Yawning, even. Alistair did an abysmal job of passing it off as a deep breath. This, in turn, caused Anora to yawn, though, of course, she knew how to hide it better. Luckily the seneschal was too deep in his reports to notice. 

“ -- lost one colt to colic. The kennelmaster reports that one mabari has had a litter of five pups, all healthy. The farrier reports that--”

Alistair jolted upright in his seat. “Wait, what was that? Go back, what was that about the kennels?”

The seneschal stared at him in wonder, as did Anora. It was the first time he’d spoken in one of these meetings.

“Er, yes. One of the mabaris has had a litter,” the seneschal repeated.

“When?”

“Er.” There was a moment while notes were shuffled. “Ten days ago.”

“There’s still time then,” Alistair said, rising to his feet. “Sorry. This needs my full attention. By your leave, my Queen,” he said, giving her a short bow. 

Anora tipped her head, masking her confusion. Alistair stood and strode down the dais, taking the steps two at a time. There were only a few members of the court present, and Alistair gave them a few regal-ish nods as he walked. Once he was halfway down the aisle, his steps quickened. By the time he reached the doorway, he was at a light jog, and as soon as he was over the threshold he took off like a shot to the right. A second later he zoomed past the doorway again, heading in the opposite direction, clutching his crown lest it fall off his head. 

Everyone turned to look at Anora, as if she could provide an answer for his behavior. Inwardly, she couldn’t decide if she wanted to laugh or scream with annoyance. Even Cailan, who could barely be bothered with the minutiae of court life, would never have broken with the proper order of business in such a manner.

_ But he’s not Cailan, is he? _ She shoved the thought and the associated ping of grief aside and concentrated on the matter at hand. It would’ve been easy to make a waspish remark; the courtiers in attendance were all loyal to Anora to a fault. Still, Alistair had only been King for two weeks. Perhaps she should spare him the slice of her wit for another few days at least. At any rate, it would do her more credit to show patience. “I see we can look forward to the finest kennels in all of Ferelden,” she said, allowing a wry smile. 

Just before she bid the seneschal to continue, Anora caught sight of two minor nobles at the back of the room talking among themselves. Side conversations were not, strictly speaking, an issue, as long as business could continue unimpeded. However, there was a fair bit of snickering involved, and that simply wouldn’t do. She craned her neck to address them. “I’m sorry, what was that? I couldn’t quite hear.”

Anora might as well have dumped a bucket of ice water on the court. The one noble who had been talking, a somewhat pompous man named Jarvis, licked his lips nervously. “My apologies, your Majesty.” When Anora raised her eyebrows, he stammered to continue. “Er, I was… merely making a small jest. In poor taste. It won’t happen again.”

Anora nodded, and then softened her expression. “Worried that our new king is going to the dogs, are we?” A nervous titter floated through the room. “I would remind you that King Alistair has extensive experience using mabari in battle. One can rest assured that, though his methods may be mysterious, his actions serve the greater good.”

Easy enough to say; the problem came later, when Anora decided to investigate the kennels herself. What she discovered was not, in fact, a sober discussion between kennelmaster and king. Instead, she found Alistair sitting on the ground in a pen, puppies literally crawling all over him, with the mother dog looking on patiently.

Alistair had his back to the door, giving Anora a chance to observe him unguarded as he babbled to the pups. “Ooh, look at you, aren’t you a ferocious one? You’re going to be the best hunter, you are. Yes, let go of my finger, ow. And hello little one, are you the runt? No fear, we won’t let anything happen to you. Look how proud your mama is, she’s so proud of you, yes she is.”

Anora cleared her throat. Alistair gave a yelp of surprise. “Oh -  _ oh!”  _ He struggled to rise, plucking puppies from his lap one after the other. “Sorry, let me just --”

“No need to stop on my account,” Anora said as Alistair clambered to his feet. “Troop inspections are good for morale, or so I hear.”

Though she’d tried to keep her tone neutral, Alistair winced as if scolded. “Sorry. I probably should’ve waited till after the meeting was done? I just....” He looked around helplessly, and for a moment the loneliness etched on his face was palpable. Then his expression went back to the shuttered, guarded look he’d had since coming to the castle. “Bonding happens very young,” he said. “Within the first few weeks. One never knows if a bond can be formed -- it’s a gamble with each litter.”

Anora nodded. “That sounds eminently reasonable,” she said out loud. Inwardly, she was torn between pique at discovering that Alistair had disrupted a meeting simply because he wanted to play with puppies, and compassion for the loneliness that he’d inadvertently revealed. She straightened her posture, pushing the sympathy aside; all kings were lonely. He’d just have to learn to deal with it. 

“Does it?” Alistair looked so surprised that she was agreeing with him that Anora felt another sting of sympathy.

“Of course,” she said. “A king with his loyal mabari presents a picture of Ferelden strength.”

“Oh, right,” Alistair blinked; clearly, those implications hadn’t occurred to him. 

Anora ground her teeth at his lack of finesse. “Have any of them shown signs of bonding?”

“Too soon to tell,” Alistair said, turning back to the puppies. “It’ll take another few visits for me to know for sure, but this one,” he said, bending to pluck up a puppy that had been trying very hard to gnaw the buckle on his shoe, “she shows promise, I think.” He handled the dogs as if he’d been doing it all his life, more at ease than Anora had ever seen. 

_ If only he could be so confident in the throne room.  _ Anora looked at the pup he cradled in his hands. It was the smallest, with an oddly-shaped ear that stuck out at an angle. “Isn’t that the runt?”

Immediately, Anora regretted her choice of words. Alistair’s face went flat at the unspoken insult and he turned away. “You’d better get back to the throne room. Wouldn’t want your gown to smell like the kennels.”

It was only then that she realized Alistair had changed into simple, somewhat worn clothes. She idly wondered where he’d gotten them. What was more important was whether it was worth it to apologize, or if that would just lead to a fight or further hurt feelings. Though there was no one nearby, tongues were already bound to wag that she had visited the kennels at all. Best not add any fuel to that particular fire. She nodded. “I suppose you’re right,” she said, hoping that agreeing would diffuse the tension. “Velvet is not the best for this environment. I should’ve thought to change, as you did. Regardless, I’ll take my leave. Don’t forget, we’ve got afternoon tea with the Reverend Mother. Make sure you give yourself enough time to clean up.” 

Once again, she regretted her words. Cailan would have appreciated the reminder, knowing it was given in fondness. Alistair took it as another insult, sighing and nodding as if he’d already done something wrong. The level of discomfort reached a critical state, as it so often did when Anora dealt with Alistair, and she withdrew as quickly as she could. 

Back in her chambers, Anora relaxed before her afternoon appointments. Or at least, she tried to, curling on her settee with a book and a cup of cocoa. But the cocoa went cold and the book unread as she stared into the middle distance, thinking. All kings (and queens) were lonely, that much was true. But seeing the look on Alistair’s face had been heartbreaking, and Anora’s was not a heart likely to break. 

Anora felt a vague sense of unease and guilt, as if she’d made an error. Grudgingly, she admitted to herself that perhaps she could be more patient with Alistair; he  _ was  _ still learning, after all. It wouldn’t be the first time she would need to grit her teeth and get to know someone she disliked. As weary as the prospect made her, she knew from experience that being the one to reach across a divide usually worked in one’s favor. 

Mind made up, she turned her attention back to her book, forcing herself to believe she was no longer troubled by the situation. 

***

Alistair spent the morning kicking himself. Not literally, of course, that would’ve been stupid. Possibly not as stupid as rushing out of court so he could visit the pups. Maker, why had he done that? He could’ve waited the half hour and slipped down to the kennels with no one the wiser. 

However nice it had been to have a few moments with the dogs, it wasn’t worth Anora’s sniping at him for it. Alistair could tell she was annoyed with him. She was always annoyed with him. It seemed to be a constant state of affairs with her.

Not that he could blame her. His first few weeks had been dreadful. Alistair hadn’t started any wars or anything, but he messed up almost constantly. Everyone was always giving him instructions on which fork to use and how to accept a bow and the difference between an Arl and a Teryn and it was all such a blur. He couldn’t take half of it in. Even with the copious notes he wrote out every night, it was too much.

It was like a nightmare, honestly. Not a darkspawn nightmare, but like the ones he’d had when he was training to be a Templar, dreaming about exams that he hadn’t studied for, or showing up for training with no trousers. 

Back in his quarters, he took a long bath. Not that he needed it, but it was something to do. He got dressed, not bothering to ring for his manservant, Petyr. Though maybe he should? What does a manservant do, when he’s not manserving? Whatever it was, it was probably more fun than helping Alistair into his tunic. Plus he didn’t like Petyr very much. He always seemed offended by Alistair’s requests. Probably Alistair was asking wrong or something, he had no idea.

He found his way to the small, private dining room about ten minutes before teatime. Tea was his least favorite meal. Not enough cheese, and everything was too small. Anora, of course, ate her scones without so much as a crumb astray, while Alistair’s practically exploded to bits as soon as he touched them. Plus there seemed to be an unspoken limit as to how much one was supposed to eat, and no matter how little Alistair consumed, he always felt like a glutton in comparison to everyone else. Which wasn’t quite fair; he had a Warden’s appetite. And plus, he was king. Why couldn’t he eat as many sandwiches as he wanted, as long as everyone else had gotten their fill?

Still, best get it over with. He loitered around the dining room until Anora showed up a few minutes later. Alistair held her chair out for her, as he’d been taught. 

Something about her seemed different. Alistair wasn’t sure what it was, but it put him on edge. He stared out the window, wishing the Revered Mother would be early. She wouldn’t be, of course -- the steward made sure that guests waited until the precise chime of the bells before being granted their audience.

“Did you have a pleasant afternoon?” Anora asked.

The fact that she’d broken the silence was shocking enough, even more so to ask such a banal question. “Er. I suppose?” Alistair said, unsure whether this was some sort of test. “And you?”

Anora gave the merest hint of a shrug. “A bit boring.”

Alistair hummed in acknowledgement, not knowing how to respond. Or rather, he did know how to respond, but he knew anything he wanted to say was likely to annoy Anora.  _ Have you tried just screaming your head off? It’s a great way to pass the time.  _ Or,  _ Next time, try a putting on puppet show from your balcony. Just make sure your socks are clean.  _ But Anora wouldn’t laugh at those things, not the way Leliana or Zevran or Surana would have. Maker, he missed them so much. 

The doors opened and the steward announced the Reverend Mother Perpetua. With a shock, Alistair realized he recognized her. He smiled for the first time in days.

Perpetua curtseyed formally to them both, and then Anora opened her arms for a more affectionate greeting, kissing the woman on both cheeks. “How are you, my dear? It’s been too long.”

“I’m well, your majesty,” Perpetua said, smiling. 

“Allow me to present his majesty, King Alistair,” Anora said formally.

“Hello again,” Alistair grinned, holding out his hand.

Anora’s eyes widened in surprise. “You know each other?”

“I wasn’t sure you’d remember me, your majesty,” Perpetua said, shaking his hand.

“However did you meet?” Anora pressed, sitting at the tea table.

“Oh, just, you know. Doing, um. Warden… things,” Alistair said. The last thing he needed was for Anora to know all that they’d gotten up to in Denerim. And now Alistair missed his friends more than ever; his chest actually ached with it, and he sighed.

With the faintest shadow of confused disapproval on her face, Anora seamlessly shifted the conversation to other matters. Glumly, Alistair concentrated on taking his tea without making a mess. He was only half paying attention to what his wife and the Revered Mother were saying -- something about needing candles at the Chantry, some guarded gossip about mutual acquaintances, that sort of thing. As the minutes ticked by, Alistair’s loneliness intensified, to the point where he started to wonder how much more of this life he could take before going completely mad.

The meal seemed to be winding down, and there was a lull in the conversation. With uncharacteristic boldness, Alistair spoke up. “How is Sister Theohild?”

Once again, Anora seemed to think him asking a simple question was a marvel on par with a talking dog. Perpetua, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice. “She’s well, your majesty,” she answered, smiling a little.

Seeing a genuine smile gave Alistair more courage. “Not eggs-cellent? Or flan-tastic?” Alistair asked, grinning when Perpetua did her best to hide her own laughter. Anora was still staring at him as if he was a complete stranger. He hardly cared; it was worth it to have an excuse to laugh.

“Who is this Sister?” Anora asked. “I’m not sure I’ve made her acquaintance.”

“I rather doubt you would. She’s… a very devout member of our Chantry, your majesty,” Perpetua said, trying to regain her composure. 

“I’m sorry did you say she’s a  _ berry  _ devout member?” Alistair asked. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Perpetua dissolved into a snorting giggle. Anora stared at her in confusion; clearly, she’d never seen the woman laugh. 

“You should bring her here so the queen can hear her sing the Chant,” Alistair suggested. “‘The  _ Veal  _ holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her  _ bacon  _ and her shield --’” Alistair did his best impression of the old woman’s voice. 

Perpetua’s shoulders were shaking as she covered her face with both hands. “Your majesty, please,” she begged, laughing.

“Wait, did you say ‘her  _ bacon  _ and her shield’?” Anora asked. Was it possible that she had a tiny sparkle of mirth in her eyes? 

“Oh yes,” Alistair nodded seriously. “Because Andraste knows the  _ peas  _ of the Maker’s benediction -- I say, are you alright?” He put a hand on Perpetua’s shoulder; she’d laughed so hard that she began to cough.

“Fine, your majesty,” she choked out. “Maker, that woman will be the death of me,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Every other word is about food,  and I still don’t know if she’s doing it on purpose or not.”

“Well, please be sure to give her my very kindest regards,” Alistair said sincerely. 

“I’m sure she’ll be over the spoon to hear it, your majesty,” Perpetua said, biting her lip.

Alistair roared with laughter, slapping his knee. “There’s the spirit! ‘Over the spoon’, I love it.”

Even Anora had cracked a smile, though she was so bewildered that it made her look more unsettled than anything. With the ease of long practice, she called the meal to a close, saying a few pleasantries as she rose to her feet. The Revered Mother curtseyed to both of them and withdrew, leaving them alone.

Alistair’s good humor only lasted a few moments, until Anora smacked him on the upper arm. “Ow!” He rubbed his bicep. “What was that for?” 

“You could’ve told me you knew her,” Anora accused, her eyes flashing. But they weren’t flashing with anger; it was more like she was having trouble holding back laughter. “I almost got tea up my nose when you said that bit about the peas.”

“Well I didn’t know which Revered Mother it was, did I?” Alistair said defensively, not sure what was going on. Anora didn’t seem truly angry with him, which in itself was strange.

Anora crossed her arms, giving him an amused look. “Did the Sister really say all those things?”

“She did. She was a very odd old bitty. Quite liked her, though.” Alistair sighed. He wished he could tell Surana about this; she would’ve thought it was hilarious. He caught sight of the nearly-full tea tray out of the corner of his eye. He was still hungry, but with no dinner on his schedule, his next meal wouldn’t be until tomorrow morning. There was a bowl of fruit in his room that was kept stocked, so he could always have that. He was getting frightfully tired of apples, though.

He realized Anora caught him looking. “Um, what happens to the food we don’t eat?” he asked. Maybe he could pretend to be concerned about wasting the meal as an excuse to grab another sandwich.

“I assume the servants eat it, why?”

Alistair scrunched his nose in disappointment. “No reason,” he said, eyeing the cakes and sandwiches regretfully. Well, it was good the servants would get a treat, at least.

Apparently it wasn’t good enough, because Anora narrowed her eyes. “You… do know you can have Petyr run to the kitchens for you whenever you please, don’t you?”

Alistair had guessed, but he hasn't known for sure. It seemed so… indulgent, somehow. Plus there was the whole not-wanting-to-deal-with-Petyr thing. Without knowing for sure if it was allowed for Alistair to ask, he’d simply fret over the right way to make the request until his mind locked up and he was thoroughly miserable. It was just easier to eat the apples. “Oh, well,” he said, abashed. “They’re so busy cooking, I’d hate to bother them in between meals.”

Anora gave a disbelieving laugh. “It’s literally their job, Alistair. I’m not saying they’ll be happy to roast you a capon at a moment’s notice, but they can throw together a plate of bread and cheese.” She peered at him closely. “Have you been -- Maker’s breath, have you been skipping  _ meals?”  _

Alistair’s cheeks flushed. He felt incredibly stupid, probably the worst he’d felt since arriving. At least there wasn’t an audience for this particular cock-up. No audience, just his wife, staring at him in horror. 

He couldn’t even stammer out a response, merely spluttering “What? No - I -” before Anora wiped both her hands down her face, eyes wide with disbelief. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out.

At that, Anora’s face hardened. “No.”

Alistair was confused. “But, I am, though? Sorry, I mean.”

“No,” she said again, shaking her head. “Don’t you dare apologize. I cannot believe I -” With a brief shake of her head, she cut herself off. She closed her eyes and took a breath, calming herself. Then she opened them again and put her hands on Alistair’s shoulders, just as the bell tolled the evening. “Alistair. Sit. Eat as much as you like. I have to attend a dress fitting now, but we need to have a serious conversation soon. You cannot possibly continue in this state. I didn’t realize how bad things had gotten, but I give you my word, I’ll do my best to address the situation.” 

Alistair had no idea what she was talking about, but he nodded. That seemed to satisfy her, and she left. 

Sighing, Alistair sank back into the chair. He turned to the tea tray, staring at it balefully. Idly, he popped a cake into his mouth and chewed it. Though it was delicious, the sinking feeling in his gut made it impossible to enjoy. He mulled over what Anora had just said, and it seemed anything but good. What couldn’t she believe? Probably how stupid he was, or how much she regretted marrying him. And serious conversations were never good, nor was the phrase ‘address the situation’. Maybe she would have the marriage annulled? She probably could; they hadn’t consummated their relationship. 

That didn’t seem like a very good idea, politically, but what did he know of such things? Maybe it wouldn’t matter. Maybe --

A maid let herself in, stopping short with an embarrassed squeak and hasty curtsy when she saw Alistair. “Sorry, your majesty, I’ll come back.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he said, forcing himself to smile. He got to his feet. “I’m done here.” 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair does something right.

Anora was no stranger to sleepless nights. If there was a monarch in all of Thedas that didn’t occasionally lose sleep, they were likely inept or corrupt. So it was with a certain bleary familiarity that she sat up in bed, acknowledging that sleep was not likely to arrive.

This time, the cause was simple: guilt. She was positively wracked with it. Anora had been prepared to admit that she’d made a minor miscalculation concerning Alistair, but when she realized he’d been skipping meals rather than request food, the full measure of her folly became clear. 

Yes, Alistair was annoying. But for the first time she realized he was lonely and confused and probably scared. And that was her fault. 

It was so easy to forget he was young. So easy to see Cailan’s face staring back at her, so easy to be disappointed in him as a result.  _ But he’s not Cailan.  _ She’d had that same thought dozens of times in the last few weeks, but only now did she realize what it meant. 

Anora swung her legs over the side of the bed and got up, slipping her feet into soft shoes. It was a warm night for so late in autumn -- though judging by the smudge of light on the horizon, it was nearly dawn. She walked out on the balcony, wrapping her robe around her as she leaned on the railing.

Now that she wasn’t lying in bed with nothing but her spinning thoughts for company, the situation didn’t seem so bad. Certainly not beyond repair. After all, she’d told Alistair yesterday that she would fix things. And she would. Now that she knew how badly he was floundering, it would be a simple matter to point him in the right direction.

Though how he could be so naive as to not think to order meals… that seemed nearly impossible. Hadn’t he grown up in Eamon’s estate? Anora realized she only had a hazy concept of his past. For that matter, she had very little concept of his present. Maybe certain things were a challenge for Alistair. Anora had a cousin like that -- absolutely brilliant in some respects, but couldn’t pick her clothes or order a meal without wrapping herself into knots. Perhaps Alistair was the same?

Whatever the issue, it needed attention. Anora straightened, scrutinizing the sunrise. Good. Daylight meant action. It was time for her to make this right.

***

Alistair awoke the same way he had every morning since arriving at the castle: to the sound of Petyr yanking open the curtains, flooding the room with light. He groaned, burying his face under the covers. 

“Good morning, your majesty,” his manservant said firmly, making it clear, as he always did, that Alistair was to get up. 

With a sigh to steel himself, Alistair emerged from the blankets. “Good morning,” he said. He’d given up calling Petyr by his name; when he’d tried the first few times, Petyr had frowned at him, until he finally told Alistair that it was inappropriate, and “unbecoming of a king” to be so familiar. “What’s in store for today, then?”

“Breakfast with the Queen, daily briefing, troop inspection mid-afternoon, dinner with Arl Eamon.”

“No lunch?”

“No, your majesty.”

Alistair hesitated for an instant. If he was going to be kicked out, he might as well enjoy the time he had left. Or at the very least, if he couldn’t enjoy it, he shouldn’t starve. “I’ll take lunch here, then, if it’s alright,” he said, trying to sound confident.

“Of course, your majesty,” Petyr said, as if it was to be expected. Which, Alistair realized, it probably was. Well why hadn’t anyone told him that?

Petyr selected some clothing from the wardrobe and shook it out. With another sigh, Alistair got out of bed and allowed himself to be dressed. It was usually only the second- or third-most humiliating moment of the day, the subtle reminder that he couldn’t be trusted to dress himself. Once he was done he thanked Petyr dully and headed to the dining room.

Anora was already there, seated at the table. She gave him a funny look as he sat. If Alistair didn’t know any better, he’d have thought she looked guilty. Which spoke to the whole idea that she was going to dethrone him. Alistair tucked into his eggs and bacon, his hunger too great to ignore, even under these circumstances.

“Did you sleep well?” Anora asked, buttering a piece of toast. 

“Fine, thanks,” Alistair said. “And you?”

“Fine,” Anora said. 

The minimum required conversation now complete, they ate in silence. At least, until Anora spoke again just before the meal was over. “Do you have plans after dinner?”

Alistair paused, wondering if this was a trap. “Er, no?”

Anora nodded as if something had been decided. “Perhaps you could spare me a few minutes, then?” She smiled, a bland sort of smile that gave nothing away.

“I… suppose so?” Alistair hazarded a response. 

Anora rose and Alistair hurried to follow suit. Once she was gone, he sank back to his seat to finish his meal. Apparently their serious conversation was coming sooner rather than later. 

Alistair had spent most of the previous evening contemplating his future, should Anora decide to get rid of him. He finally came to the conclusion that it might not be that bad. She probably wouldn’t have him killed, at any rate. And the Wardens would likely take him back. They certainly weren’t in a position to turn down volunteers, even if they were failed kings. 

Would Surana be glad to see him? He certainly missed her more than a little. He’d always hoped -- well, he’d hoped for a lot of things in his life, hadn’t he? He ate the last of his toast and got to his feet. Best not think about that. 

Oddly enough, the knowledge that things might be over sooner rather than later was rather freeing. Maybe that was why the briefing seemed so short. After, Alistair went back to his room. Lunch was delivered a little after noon, and being able to eat without fearing he was making a fool of himself was even more cheering. 

By the time he made his way to the troop inspection, he felt almost as good as he had seeing the Revered Mother yesterday. Captain Grayson met him in the training yard with a crisp salute. Behind him was a half hundred soldiers in gleaming armor, standing at attention.

Alistair had only met the Captain in passing, but it was enough to make a good impression. The man was quite a bit older than Alistair, possibly as old as forty, but he had a good-natured face and an easy manner. “Good afternoon, Captain,” Alistair said, offering his hand. 

The Captain looked taken aback by the gesture, but shook his hand with a grin. “It will be my great pleasure to present the honor guard for your majesty’s inspection,” he said formally.

“The pleasure is all mine, Captain.”

With that, Grayson turned and issued a few commands. The guard ran through a few parade formations with impeccable precision, eventually coming to rest in two rows, the better for Alistair to “inspect” them.

He’d been through his fair share of inspections as a Templar novice and as a Warden. This was nothing like the surprise scrambles given to young recruits, nor the equipment checks Duncan occasionally sprung on him. This was for show only; the assembled soldiers were the cream of the crop of the palace guard, and had ample time to polish their kit until they gleamed. 

Still, the tradition was important. Alistair dutifully walked down the line, looking the men and women up and down. He realized almost immediately that he was the youngest person in the courtyard. He’d always heard that honor guards were for soldiers too soft for real battle, for the sons of rich merchants or the daughters of minor nobles that were aching to serve, but hamstrung by their father’s desire to keep them safe.

These troops were obviously veterans. Their armor, while spotless, had signs of wear and tear, and there were faded scars on many of their faces. By the time he’d reached the end of the line, he was struck with an intense desire to not let these people down. They'd already paid for their service in blood.  Even if he was only king for another few days, he was their king  _ now.   _

He walked slowly back to the front, where a makeshift dais had been erected. The whole time, his mind was working fast. He was meant to give a short speech. Anora had written it for him, of course, and he’d spent the last two days trying to memorize it, practicing it over and over in his room. But it was all about honor and glory and the Theirin legacy. He couldn’t possibly say that to these soldiers, not now, knowing that they’d put their lives on the line. Desperately, he tried to think of what Duncan would say. Which was silly; he wasn’t Duncan, and he never would be. He was only Alistair. 

As he stepped onto the dais, Grayson called out a formal offer for Alistair to address the troops. Alistair nodded, now nearly panicking. Even if he’d wanted to say Anora’s words for her, he couldn’t remember them now anyway. He looked over the troops, trying to smile. A flash of blue caught his attention on a nearby balcony. Dammit all to hell, it was Anora. Probably came to see how badly he’d mess up. 

Alistair stared at her a moment. Well, he wasn’t long for his rule anyway; might as well say what he felt. He looked back at the soldiers. “First off, at ease.” The troops dutifully shifted to a resting posture. Alistair continued: “I’ll be honest. I had a very pretty speech prepared. But I-I can’t give it to you. Mostly because, um, I can’t remember it.” He grinned sheepishly, and a few mouths twitched with suppressed smiles. “So I’m going to speak to you, soldier-to-soldier. I-I can see that I’m addressing probably the finest fighting men and women in all of Ferelden. I’ve been a Templar, and I’ve been a Grey Warden. I’ve spent more time with a sword in my hand than a crown on my head. And I know how it feels to be called by duty to protect someone who is a right royal arse.”

At that, lips were bitten and snickers could, faintly, be heard. “Oh, go on then,” Alistair waved. “When I said at ease I meant it. Look, pretend he’s not here, alright?” he said, pointing his thumb at Grayson, who was himself holding back a grin.  

“Anyway. I just want to say, um, I know it’s weird. You served Cailan, probably for some of you since he was just a lad, and now here’s his blinkered little brother come to take his place. And I admit I know very little about being King. I grew up in a kennel at Redcliffe, for Maker’s sake.” At that, there was laughter. “But I do know about being a soldier. I know what price you’ve paid to be here, to be the one that makes it home, when your comrades have fallen. I was at Ostagar. I lost -” 

Alistair paused to choose his words. This wasn't about him. “I lost many friends that day, as no doubt you have, over the years. I want you to know that I -- well, I know what that’s like. You have pledged to protect the Theirin line. Well, I have a pledge to you. I pledge that I will try to honor the oaths you have taken, the sacrifices you have made, by being the- the best king I can be. For, um, as long as that may be,” he said, glancing up at Anora without making eye contact. “For you, and for all of Ferelden.”

He stopped talking, suddenly realizing he’d run out of things to say. Alistair had no idea how to end a speech. Thinking quickly, he stepped off the dais and saluted. 

Grayson picked up the hint. He drew his sword and called out, “Long live the King!”

As one, the soldiers did the same. But they were no longer looking into the middle distance, but instead looking at Alistair. Some of them grinned and others didn’t, but it was very touching in the whole. 

Grayson dismissed them, and they trotted to the far corners of the courtyard. They didn’t leave, however, instead settling into small groups, taking off their helmets and leaning on the walls to talk among themselves.

“Thank you, Captain,” Alistair said, shaking his hand. 

“My pleasure, your majesty.”

“I don’t suppose you could call me Alistair?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Grayson gave a professional smile. “Of course, your- Alistair. And if I might be so bold to say, it’s good to know you’ve been on the field. We’ve all heard of what you did for us with the Blight, but it’s all just a story until you see the man up close.”

Alistair nodded. “Not that I miss the darkspawn, but I do miss being out there. For such a big building, it’s amazing how cooped up the castle can seem.” Alistair looked around. Anora was still watching him. Maker, why was she still here? He couldn’t decipher the expression on her face. It looked more thoughtful than anything. Probably calculating how quickly she could be rid of him.

“If you ever fancy a bit of sparring, let me know,” Grayson said, a hint of challenge in his voice.

“What, really? Now?” Alistair said, turning his attention back to the Captain.

Grayson grinned. “King Cailan thought it was useful. To entertain the troops, mind.” He nodded, mock-sober.

Alistair chanced another glance at Anora. Well, why not? He was itching to get some exercise, and it wasn’t as if he had anything to lose. “I think I’ll take you up on that, Captain.”

***

Anora watched as Captain Grayson led Alistair to the equipment shed at the far end of the training yard. She hadn’t caught their conversation, but it seemed as if the Captain had arranged for them to spar.

It certainly wasn’t unheard of; Cailan used to have bouts with the Captain at regular intervals. They were little more than exhibition matches, of course. Usually Anora didn’t bother to watch, unless it was an official tourney. 

Now, however, she was rooted to the spot. Much of that had to do with the conflicting emotions still working through her system. Her original purpose was to see whether Alistair could manage the speech she’d prepared for him. She’d hoped her presence would go unnoticed. Alas, Alistair had spotted her. 

Her heart had sunk when it became obvious that he was winging it. That is, until she actually heard what he was saying. It wasn’t polished, but it was a far cry from the Landsmeet, when he could hardly put three words together. And if the actual words were far too informal for her taste, Anora could not deny their impact. The honor guard had clearly loved it, and that’s all that mattered. 

Anora called over one of the runners standing by the door. “I think I’ll stay and watch,” she said. “Perhaps you could arrange for a hot bath to be drawn in my quarters?”

The woman acquiesced with a graceful curtsey, leaving Anora alone. She looked out over the yard, mind working overtime. Alistair and Grayson prepared themselves; Grayson divesting himself of his steel armor, Alistair donning a padded tabard and leather greaves and bracers. Alistair strapped on his own armor, even going so far as to use his teeth to hold the leather bands on the bracers as he tightened the buckles. Anora wondered if he realized he could ask for help from one of the squires standing at the ready, or if he simply preferred to do it himself.

A moment later the two men moved to the training ring. Alistair had selected a wooden claymore, while Grayson had a practice sword and shield. After taking a few swings and shrugging to settle his armor, Alistair nodded.

Grayson did the same, tapping his sword on his shield to indicate he was ready. They both dipped into a crouch, circling each other, once around the ring, then again. 

Anora frowned; the few times she’d watched Cailan, he’d simply charged Grayson straight off. This was... odd. 

“Come on, Captain, what’re you waiting for?” Alistair called out, taunting Grayson.

“Minding my betters,” the Captain shouted back. 

“Psh.” Alistair’s grin was visible even at a distance. And then, finally, he charged.

Maker, he was _ quick. _ Much faster than Anora expected for such a large man. Grayson only managed to deflect the overhand swing of Alistair’s sword at the last second. Alistair clearly anticipated the move, spinning away smoothly and back to a ready posture once again.

Tentatively, there were some hoots and clapping from the growing crowd of soldiers looking on. Grayson was grinning now, too, and continued to do so as he attempted to bash Alistair, bracing the shield against his shoulder. Alistair anticipated this as well; not surprising, as Grayson had made no effort to mask his intentions. Alistair dodged to the side, deflecting Grayson’s momentum rather than absorbing it.

“Please, Captain, I’m not a new recruit,” Alistair called out. “Or are we meant to be dancing the remigold?”

Anora bit her lip against a snicker. Grayson, meanwhile, laughed in delight. “Alright, gloves off.” 

It was harder to follow after that. They rushed at the same time, coming together in a crush, too close for either to use their weapons effectively. Grayson finally managed to shove Alistair off, following up with a slice of his sword, but Alistair blocked it with his own blade. 

For a few moments they continued like that, Grayson on the offensive, Alistair blocking and parrying. It was nothing whatsoever like watching Cailan. The former king had sparred as if he were fencing, with a lot of showy moves. Anora didn’t know much of battle, but it was clear that Alistair had a much broader range of experience, despite being so young. 

The crowd, by now, was happily yelling and applauding and having a grand time. Alistair and Grayson were both smiling still, even as Alistair kept losing ground. He just smiled more with every inch he gave up.

And then Grayson went in with an overhand blow. It seemed to be what Alistair was waiting for. He shifted his grip on his sword, grabbing the blade itself about half a foot below the tip. He blocked Grayson’s swing as if the claymore was a staff, shoving all his weight up and back.

Grayson reeled backwards, not quite a stumble. Alistair shifted his grip once again, now holding both hands on the blade, swinging the weapon like a club. Yet his aim was not for Grayson’s head or chest, but his ankles; Alistair yanked the sword, using the crosspiece to hook Grayson’s foot.

Already off-balance, the Captain went down. Alistair easily pinned his opponent’s sword with his foot, once again swinging his claymore right-side-round towards Grayson’s neck, almost as if he were playing croquet. He halted the motion and stepped back, but it was clear that in battle Grayson would’ve been dealt a serious, possibly fatal, blow. 

There was a huge cheer from the crowd as Alistair leaned over to give a hand to Grayson, helping him stand up. The Captain was grinning ear-to-ear. Of course Cailan had always “won” their bouts, but Anora got the impression that this was the first time Grayson had been truly bested in the ring.

Anora quickly retreated back into the castle. As requested, her bath was ready. She disrobed, carefully hanging her gown before sinking into the steaming water.

Her ploy to settle her thoughts had failed; now she was more confused than before. Absently, she ran a soaped cloth up her arms, over her shoulders and across her neck. The sensation was surprisingly pleasant, and she realized with a start that she was more than a little aroused. 

The realization made her wince. Anora was barely prepared to accept the fact that Alistair was worth the effort to learn to tolerate; being attracted to him seemed wrong. Obviously, Anora could acknowledge, on an intellectual level, that Alistair was handsome. Of course he was; he looked just like Cailan, after all. But something in her still balked at the idea that she could be attracted to him on a visceral level.

Seeing his competence in the ring, though, was undeniably... well, it was something, at any rate. She refused to try to pin down exactly how it made her feel. And she forced herself to stop running her hands over her own body; that was tempting a kind of behavior she didn’t want to indulge. Not that she never did -- she wasn’t a prude, by any means. But neither did she want to associate physical pleasure with thoughts of Alistair, either. 

At some point, she knew they’d need to consummate the marriage. She’d been putting it off, knowing how difficult it would be. Like sleeping with Cailan’s ghost, she thought. She had a vague idea that, under cover of darkness, she could manage it. Luckily Alistair had made no move to fulfill that particular kingly duty. 

Perhaps it would be tolerable, though. He certainly didn’t look anything like Cailan in the ring. Nor had he sounded like Cailan in his speech, which was shockingly effective. Perhaps Anora could learn to see him as himself in the bedroom, as well?

Now was not the time to get distracted by such thoughts. What was clear was that Anora had to stop clinging to Cailan’s memory. She’d both over- and underestimated Alistair as a result of the constant need to compare him to Cailan, and he’d suffered as a result. What was bad for king, was bad for country. Anora rose, toweling herself off vigorously. She would make a new start with Alistair, and that would begin tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are made to set things right.

Alistair returned from dinner at Eamon’s estate with a heavy heart. The meal had been excellent, and the visit glad enough, but the prospect of a “serious discussion” with Anora weighed on him. He was hoping to have a few minutes to himself before she sent for him.

So he was less than thrilled to find that she was in his sitting room, waiting for him. Strictly speaking, they shared quarters; their suites were connected by a door. Still, it felt like an invasion of privacy. Especially since she was peering at his mantlepiece, leaning over to examine the dried rose that Surana had refused. Alistair hadn’t been able to bring himself to get rid of it, and seeing as it survived several battles, he’d put it alongside the statuettes and gifts Surana had given him. 

Anora wasn’t touching the flower, but it was uncomfortable nonetheless; something about her proximity to a piece of Alistair’s history rubbed the wrong way. 

She turned, seemingly startled at his presence. “You’ve returned,” she said, her smile tentative.

Alistair was suddenly so tired of the whole thing. He preferred it when she didn’t pretend to like him. “Eamon ran out of cheese,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Anora blinked, and then a short burst of surprised laughter escaped her lips. If Alistair didn’t know better, he would think she was nervous. Well, maybe she was. It was going to be harder to get rid of him, now that at least some of the castle guard were on his side. Of course she had no way of knowing Alistair had already resigned himself to losing the throne. 

Not that he was planning to make it easy on her. “So. Out with it, then,” he said, folding his arms.

She looked taken aback, and now her nervousness was clear; she toyed with her fingertips, her elbows stuck out at an angle. Anora turned away, towards the window. “I owe you an apology,” she said, looking up at the night sky.

Alistair thought she must be talking to the moon; nothing else made sense. “What?”

Anora flinched, closing her eyes as if he’d hurled an insult at her. “I... I have treated you unfairly. I allowed my own pettiness to come before your welfare. I offer my most sincere apologies, and would ask that you allow me to make amends.”

It sounded rehearsed, which wasn’t terribly surprising. This  _ was  _ Anora, after all. It also made absolutely no sense to Alistair. “What are you  _ talking  _ about?”

Anora shook her head in frustration. “As I said the other day. Maker, to think you were going hungry, and here I was, twiddling my thumbs. I never thought... well it doesn’t matter what I thought. What matters is that I want to make it right,” she said, half to herself.

Alistair squinted at her skeptically. “You’re... not here to tell me you want an annulment?”

That seemed to jolt Anora out of whatever morass of self-pity she was trapped in. “An annulment? Why on earth would I want that?”

“Because you don’t like me,” Alistair pointed out.

“I don’t  _ know  _ you,” she said. “And I haven’t exactly gone out of my way to try. I mean to rectify that. You  _ are  _ my husband, after all.”

They stared at each other. Alistair wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed. “So... what do we do now?”

Anora blinked. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said. “I hadn’t planned it out that far.”

Alistair started to laugh; he couldn’t help it. Anora did too. He’d never heard her laugh before, not for this long at least. She seemed different, warmer and younger. 

“I need a drink,” she said, heading to the sideboard. “Do you mind?” 

Alistair shook his head. Anora poured herself a glass of pale golden mead. “Would you like some?”

Alistair scrunched his nose, shaking his head. “Not a huge fan of mead, really. Too sweet.”

Anora’s eyes narrowed. “And they haven’t brought you something you  _ do  _ prefer?”

Alistair shrugged. 

Anora frowned. “I see I’m going to have to give Petyr a talking to.”

“Maker, don’t do that,” Alistair sighed, rubbing his forehead. “He hates me enough as it is.”

Anora’s frown deepened. “That won’t do.” She tugged firmly on the bell.

Petyr appeared almost at once. “Yes, your majesty?” He didn’t seem surprised to see Anora in the slightest, directing his question to her with barely a glance at Alistair. 

“Well, what shall it be?” Anora asked Alistair.

“Oh, er. Red wine. Something dry, if you please.” 

Petyr raised an eyebrow, even as he bowed. “Very good, your majesty.”

“Have the kitchen put together a cheese platter, as well,” Anora added. “I’m feeling peckish.”

Petyr bowed again and withdrew.

“Sweet Andraste, you weren’t kidding,” Anora said. “I’ll have to find him another assignment. You can’t be expected to deal with that attitude. He was intensely loyal to Cailan. I’d hoped he would transfer that loyalty to you, but it appears not.” She sat down, slouching back in one of the overstuffed chairs. 

Alistair still wasn’t sure if the sudden change in her attitude was genuine, but he sat as well, perching on the edge of the other settee. 

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” Anora asked suddenly. “You took Grayson down quite handily. I’ve never seen anyone grip the blade of a sword like that.”

“Oh. Um. There’s more than just darkspawn out there. We ran into our fair share of bandits. That’s where I learned that move. People think the blade is like a razor, but on a sword that size the edge isn’t as sharp as you think. With a good pair of gauntlets, you can grip the blade and use it like a quarterstaff. Comes in handy. Blacksmiths hate it, though.”

Anora nodded, sipping her mead. “Quite a strange little band you ran with. You must’ve seen all sorts of things.”

Alistair couldn’t do much but nod. “Werewolves, undead, a talking tree, that was good... Bann Teagan dancing a jig.”

“What, really?”

“He was being controlled by a demon,” Alistair explained. 

“Oh. Well that doesn’t sound pleasant.”

Alistair suspected that was what passed for a joke from Anora. It wasn’t that bad, actually. Maybe this whole thing wasn’t completely hopeless, after all? Alistair nodded, sighing. “His rhythm was  _ terrible.”  _

Anora spluttered her mead, choking a little. She recovered quickly, however. “I’m not sure we can blame the demon for that. I danced with him at my wedding. He trod on my feet three times.”

Alistair grinned at that. It faded quickly when he realized her meaning. “Your wedding to Cailan, you mean.” There had been no dancing at their own wedding. 

Anora peered into her glass. “Yes.” 

“What was he like? I mean, I met him once or twice. He, ah, didn’t know who I was though.” When Anora bit her lip, Alistair hurried to take back his words. “Sorry, sorry. I guess I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s fine,” Anora said. “He was... charming. Confident. Gregarious. A natural leader.” She looked up at the ceiling, though her gaze was fixed in the middle distance. “Not overburdened with intelligence, but he knew to rely on his advisors. Had a terrible sense of humor though. He loved bawdy puppet shows and pantomimes where men got things thrown at the family jewels.” She made a face. 

Alistair snorted. “Really?”

Anora shrugged. There was a discreet knock at the door, and Petyr himself in a second later, bearing a tray. He set it on the sideboard and began opening the bottle of wine.

“Oh, no, allow me,” Alistair said, rising to his feet. He took the corkscrew from Petyr’s hand with a slight tug. The manservant was almost scowling. Alistair found he wasn’t as intimidated as he had been. Somehow having Anora confirm that the man was out of line made it easier. He ignored Petyr and opened the bottle of wine, pulling the cork with a faint pop. Alistair poured a little bit into a glass and swirled it vigorously. “What year is this?”

Petyr’s eyes almost bulged out of his head. “Er. 9:38?”

It did not escape Alistair’s notice that he’d forgotten the  _ your majesty.  _ “Hmm.” Alistair hid his smile by burying his nose in the glass, taking a long sniff before going back to aerating the wine. “Could do with a ‘36 next time, if it’s all the same.”

Anora was staring at him, her eyes wide with mirth. Alistair caught her glance, which made it that much harder to keep a straight face. He took a small sip. “Passable. It’ll go with the cheese, at any rate. Thank you Petyr. That will be all.”

Petyr was making strangled noises. He turned and left without so much as a bow. 

As soon as he was gone, Anora burst out laughing. “Where on earth did you learn so much about wine?”

“I didn’t,” Alistair said. “Leliana showed me how to pretend that I did, however. She said it would fool basically anyone that wasn’t a sommelier. Thought the whole idea was hilarious.” He poured a glass of wine for himself. “I guess it worked.”

“I’ll say it did,” Anora raised an eyebrow. She got to her feet and refilled her mead. When Alistair offered her the cheese plate, she shook her head. “I ordered that for you.”

“Oh, er. Thanks,” he said. He brought the plate with him, balancing it next to him on the settee. “How did you know I like cheese?”

“Well you just admitted you cleared out Eamon’s supply,” she noted. “So, you like cheese, you fight dirty, and you can impersonate a wine steward. Anything else I should know?”

“Um, well you already know about the bastard bit, so... no.” 

Anora gazed at him thoughtfully, her head tilted to one side. Alistair still wasn’t sure he could trust this sudden change of heart, but he had to admit it was a relief to have a semi-normal conversation. 

“Your speech today was inspiring,” she noted. 

“I really did practice the one you wrote for me,” Alistair said quickly. “I had it all ready.”

Anora shook her head. “Yours was more appropriate. And that bit about the kennels was brilliant.”

“Well... I mean, it’s true,” Alistair noted, sipping his wine. It was quite tasty, actually.

Anora gave him a skeptical smile. “You didn’t  _ really _ grow up in the kennels, though.”

“No, I did. I had a little berth in the loft over the kennelmaster’s quarters. Until they sent me to the Chantry, I thought I would grow up to be her apprentice.”

He might as well have slapped Anora across the face; she gasped, putting a hand up to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. Which was actually a little insulting, Alistair thought. He rushed to explain. “Maker, it wasn’t  _ that _ bad. I had plenty to eat and stayed clean, and it’s not like it was any great hardship to keep the dogs fed and watered.”

“I thought you grew up in Eamon’s household,” Anora half-whispered. 

“Well, technically,” Alistair shrugged.

“Good lord, we just... we just threw you to the wolves here.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “That certainly explains some things,” she said, almost to herself. She rose, pacing back and forth. “We’ll have to be discreet. We need it to appear that you’re getting comfortable with the throne naturally. Obviously, Petyr’s got to go -- I’ll give him a pension, simple enough. May be difficult to find a replacement that’s more your... style,” she said, chewing the inside of her lip. “But let me sleep on it. Are you more an early bird? Or a night owl?”

Alistair was struggling to keep up with her train of thought. “Either. I don’t get much sleep; comes with being a Warden.”

Anora nodded. “We’ll do evenings, then. Might even be able to kill two birds with one stone,” she said, rubbing her palms together in anticipation.

“Sorry, what’s going on?”

“You need lessons in court etiquette and politics. Proper ones, not just people telling you where to go and what to say. Can’t be expected to be comfortable when you don’t know what’s going on, can you? We don’t need to turn you into a courtier, just get you to the point where you can use your natural gifts. Oh, this is perfect. A man of the people and a brilliant queen, brought together by love of country. This will definitely work. Orlais will be quaking in its silk boots.” She grinned at him, an almost feral expression. “I haven’t been this excited in ages.”

“Um... look, that all sounds well and good, but I don’t want to be a puppet,” Alistair objected. “I mean I don’t want to lead either, but I won’t be made into some stuffed toy for you to trot out when it’s convenient.”

Her smile softened. With an almost jaunty hop she rushed over to sit next to him on the settee. She raised her hand to put it on his shoulder, pulling it away at the last second as she realized what she was doing. “But that’s the best part about it,” she said earnestly. “You won’t be a puppet, because no one expects you to be bothered with the vagaries of court. You’re a hero, Alistair, and better than that you’re a hero that’s come from nothing. People will look to you as a symbol of dedication and virtue, proof that their lives can get better. The throne will be your prize, not your burden, you see? It never worked with Cailan, because frankly, the man was as entitled as they come. Never earned anything in his life.” She shook her head as if banishing a memory. “Regardless, you will be seen to have the freedom to allow me to act more directly, on  _ your  _ behalf, not the other way around. You can step in for the important things, obviously, but if this works, that can be your choice, or not. Do you see?” 

Alistair wasn’t sure he did, but she seemed so happy that it was hard not to get swept up. Also he realized how close she was, smiling up at him. He blinked at the realization that she was, in fact, quite pretty. “I... what is the other bird?” he asked suddenly.

“What?”

“You said two birds with one stone, before.”

“Oh, that.” Anora leaned away from him, straightening the fabric of her skirt as she looked at her lap. “Well, I’ll have to give you these lessons myself. For the sake of discretion if nothing else. If we do this in the evening, it will help hold back the rumors. They already swirl around like gnats,” she said, rolling her eyes with a sigh. 

“What rumors?” Alistair frowned. He had a sneaking suspicion where this was going.

“My lack of visits to your chamber have been... noted among the staff,” she noted, her manner prim and stiff.

“Ah.”

“Actually, it’s been noted that you, ahem, have not had any visits to your chamber,” she said delicately. “That is, unfortunately, not to your favor.”

“What?? Are you -- you’re serious, aren’t you?” It was Alistair’s turn to get up and pace. “What -- why -- how am I expected to even have met anyone that I -- what -- how can they --”

“Alistair, calm yourself. It’s fine. That’s why I let myself in this evening. We can play it off as part of your humble origins, the bashful king. It’s fine,” she said again.

Alistair sank into the chair Anora had vacated earlier. He felt shell shocked. He’d talked to almost no one but a few members of the staff since he’d arrived. The thought that he would take someone to bed, just like that... it was not at all appealing. What, was he supposed to just... ask a servant or something? Everyone here worked for him; the idea of it was unsettling. He buried his face in his hands and groaned. “I had no idea.”

Anora had gotten up and refilled his wine goblet. She handed it to him. “It’s alright, I promise. Though, we might as well discuss it, since we’re on the topic.”

Alistair cringed. “Do we have to?”

Anora gave him a gentle laugh. “I merely need to know where your interests lie. We have the ability to shape rumors to our benefit, to a certain extent.”

“My interests?”

Anora quirked an eyebrow. “Women? Men? Both? Neither?”

Alistair’s cheeks flamed. “Er, women, mainly,” he mumbled. “But I don’t, I mean, I’m not one to....” He rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Not one to chase skirts?” Anora’s grin was cheeky.

Alistair shook his head. He felt so incredibly foolish. 

“Ah... you...  _ have, _ though, yes?” Anora asked delicately.

Alistair rolled his eyes, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. The last thing he wanted to think about was Morrigan right now. “Basically, yes. It’s... not something I like to think about,” he said. 

“Say no more,” Anora said at once with a brisk nod. “And don’t worry, for heaven’s sake. If you do get any... ah, predilections in that regard, just be discreet. Visits to your bedchamber are expected. I’d prefer it if you avoided open associations with married nobility, just keep it within reason. I’m relatively certain there’s a secret entrance to your chamber in one of the wardrobes; I have no idea where it comes out, however. And I’m sure I needn’t lecture you on avoiding the prospect of an illegitimate heir.”

Alistair had put his hands over his face halfway through her speech. When she was done, he peeked at her through his fingers. “What about you?” he asked, his voice muffled by his hands.

Anora shrugged. “What about me?”

“Well I mean... do you have a, er....”

“Lover?” 

“Augh, how can you just  _ say _ that?” Alistair cringed, blushing again. 

She laughed, but it was good natured. “Not at the moment,” Anora said. “It’s not so simple for me.” 

“Well that’s not fair. Should we switch bedrooms? You can have the secret thingy.”

Anora gave him a funny look, halfway between amusement and disbelief. “You are something else,” she sighed. “I’m going to bed. Give me a day or so to pull some things together, and we can start your lessons.” She took a few steps towards the door and then stopped short. “You... do agree to this plan, don’t you?”

Alistair had become so accustomed to people telling him what to do that he hadn’t even noticed Anora had failed to ask. “Um, I mean, I don’t really have much choice, do I?”

“Of course you have a choice. You always have choices. I can tell you that an annulment would be terrible for Ferelden stability. It’s absolutely the last thing we need right now. But if you truly, honestly believe that you cannot bear the prospect of being king, then we must consider that. The short term risk of instability must be weighed against the long term consequences of having a king too despondent or mad with boredom to rule.” Anora shrugged one shoulder.

Alistair gaped at her. He couldn’t decide if he was terrified or awed by the bloodless, matter-of-fact way she viewed both of their futures. “Right,” he drawled. “Aren’t you... I mean, let’s be honest, you utterly loathe me. You’d really rather be stuck with me than, I don’t know, marry someone you can stand, at least?”

Anora’s expression shifted by degrees, becoming softer and sadder. It was like a mask being removed. She sighed. “First, I don’t  _ loathe  _ you. I simply don’t  _ know  _ you. And I don’t think I’m stepping out of line by saying I haven’t exactly seen you at your best, these last few weeks. I have no reason to believe we couldn’t come to respect each other, in time. And second....” Anora looked to the side, out the window. “Kings and queens are still chess pieces. We may not be pawns, but we are shaped by our office. I learned to find contentment in service to that role. One must often make sacrifices in order to be part of the greater good. I serve Ferelden. I’ve made peace with that. You must ask yourself if you can do the same.” 

She continued to gaze out the window. She looked so sad and noble, her posture unbowed, her pale profile standing out in sharp relief against the heavy burgundies and browns of the furnishings, staring into the night sky as if she was seeing the future and the past at the same time.

And then she turned to look at him, and  _ Maker,  _ Alistair could see, on her face, the sacrifice she’d made. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Alistair still clung to the idea that he would fall in love and marry that person and be happy; clearly, Anora had also had that dream once, and she’d set it aside. It was inspiring and heartbreaking all at once, and it was the first time he realized how beautiful she was. Not as a queen or a symbol, but as a person.

When he didn’t say anything, Anora raised an eyebrow, and the moment was broken. Alistair spluttered to respond. “Um, well, I-er. I’ll -- no seriously, how do you do that? Did you write that down ahead of time?”

Anora blinked once at the sudden shift in topic. “Oh. It helps I didn’t grow up talking only to dogs.”

She said it with such a straight face that Alistair almost thought she was insulting him. But her eyes twinkled, and when he laughed her mouth twitched into a smile. “I’ll have you know a mabari has a vocabulary of over two hundred words,” he said. “And I know  _ all  _ of them.” He tapped the side of his nose.

At that, she snorted and made her way to the door. “Good night, Alistair.”

Alistair got to his feet, since she was leaving. “Good night.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shopping trip! Dwarven goods, direct from Orzammar! Plus more Sister Theohild.

“Augh, this is so difficult. Lady? Shadow? No, she’s brown that won’t-- Dorcas, maybe?” 

Anora burst out laughing. “You cannot name your mabari ‘Dorcas,’ Alistair.”

“Well I don’t know, what would you call her?” Alistair thrust the squirming puppy in her direction, holding the creature with both hands.

The pup had grown considerably in the last few weeks and was now nearly the same size as her brothers and sisters. Her ear still stuck out at an angle, though. She paid Anora no mind, content to try and gnaw on Alistair’s knuckles.

“Tyrdda,” Anora said finally.

“Hmm,” Alistair said, pulling the dog back to his lap.  _ “ _ Tyrdda, eh?  _ Forged in fastness, made in mountains, hardy hide. _ That could work,” he nodded. 

Anora felt a little quiver somewhere in her chest. “You know the Avvar tale?”

“Not all of it,” Alistair said, getting to his feet. “There was a broken down statue of her near Redcliffe. It was part of the inscription.  _ Bright her axe, unbreaking crystal, stirred to flame when temper flies/Gifted from her leaf-eared lover, laughing lady of the skies _ . Always wanted to learn the rest.”

They had been working together for almost a month, meeting several times a week in the evenings in Alistair’s quarters. Anora had been pleased to find that Alistair was, in fact, quite intelligent. In particular his ability to retain things he’d read was very impressive, though he was not so skilled when listening to verbal conversation. And his mind worked best when his body was active. 

Armed with this understanding, Anora had canceled the daily briefings in favor of more informal working sessions in the war room. Reports were submitted in writing the evening prior, and the seneschal no longer droned through tedious lists and updates; instead, the members of the castle staff were invited to attend if there were any items that needed attention. With the ability to refer to written lists and maps, as well as to move around the room, Alistair flourished. Granted, he wasn’t actually making any additional decisions -- he still deferred to Anora for that -- but at the very least he was engaged. The courtiers had balked, of course. Anora knew they would, having lost the illusion that they were somehow crucial for the day-to-day workings of the castle. But the staff clearly doted on Alistair. 

The change in the king had been gratifying. He laughed openly and seemed more at ease. Anora found it easier to overlook his mistakes. Indeed, she no longer dreaded spending time with him -- if anything, she looked forward to it. At least he understood when she was joking, which was something Cailan had never managed. 

Despite all this, she was unprepared for the impact of hearing him recite verse. His voice was the same -- he didn’t declaim as some bards did -- which somehow made the words that much more personal and intimate. It was... attractive.

Anora only realized she was staring because Alistair called her on it. “What, what’s the matter? Do I have puppy drool on me?” He looked down at his clothing.

“We have the rest,” Anora blurted out. “The rest of the verses, I mean. In the library. If you want to read them.”

“Do we?” He seemed pleased. “That reminds me. I have a stupid question for you later.”

It had become their little joke. There was so much that Alistair didn’t know and had been afraid to ask. Anora had gotten tired of assuring him that all his questions were valid, and had instead started promising him stupid answers. And then Alistair started a running list, titled “Really Stupid Questions”, to which he’d add as things occurred to him. When Anora gave him the answer, he’d cross it off the list with mock gravity. 

Well, it was silly, really. But Anora found she didn't mind silliness so much anymore.

As promised, Alistair brought it up later that evening, when they were alone. “Stupid question time,” he called out.

Anora laughed and poured herself a cup of chamomile tea from the pot. “Fire away,” she said, leaning back in her chair.

“Am I allowed to visit the shops? How do I pay for things?”

“Ooh, that is tricky,” Anora said. “The short answers are of course you can, and no one would dare to charge the king for goods.”

“Somehow I think there’s more to it than that,” Alistair sighed.

“Isn’t there always?” Anora sipped her tea. “Merchants that receive custom from royalty have an enormous advantage over those that don’t. If there are two bakeries, and you only visit one....” She left it hanging.

“Then the other might lose custom,” Alistair guessed.

“Or go out of business altogether.”

“That sounds like a good way to Foment Discord,” Alistair said, intoning the last few words seriously. 

Anora laughed; Alistair seemed to love that phrase so much. “Yes. And the merchant you  _ do  _ frequent will feel obligated to give you your items for free, which can also be a burden.”

“Damn,” Alistair sighed, slumping back in his own chair. 

“What are you looking to purchase? We can send someone down, it’s no trouble.”

“Oh, well,” Alistair said, suddenly busying himself with pouring himself a cup of tea. “You know. Things. Never really, um, had much of my own. Just wanted to, I don’t know, pick things out for myself.” He fiddled with his teacup, not meeting Anora’s eyes.

Anora had never considered the matter of Alistair’s possessions, or lack thereof. Templars and Wardens have almost nothing of their own, which meant that Alistair was surrounded at all times with Cailan’s old things. She felt a stab of guilt; no one should have to live like that. “There is another option,” she said slowly, trying to work out a plan on the fly. “Satinalia is next week,” she pointed out.

Alistair squinted at her. “Sorry, not following.”

“It’s traditional to wear masks,” Anora said. “Lots of people do, in the days before. And the shops will be full to bursting right now.”

“Ohhhhh!” Alistair said. “Sneaky, I like it.” He grinned. “Now I just need some money.”

“Easy enough. I’ll have the bursar release funds from our personal accounts tomorrow.”

“I have an account? Wait, did you say ‘our’ accounts?”

Anora smiled sweetly. “Well of course you do. And you don’t really think I’ll just let you have  _ all  _ the fun, do you?”

***   
The hat was utterly ridiculous, brushed brown felt with a large, floppy brim rolled up on one side, topped off with a profusion of feathers stuck in the brim. Alistair quite liked it, even if Anora had burst into giggles when she saw him put it on. 

“What? It’s dashing,” he said, swirling his cape.

“You look like you’re playing dress-up as a chevalier,” she said.

“Need a rapier for that,” Alistair shot back. He had instead a plain shortsword tucked into his belt, the kind favored by wealthy merchants. Aside from the hat, it was the most normal he’d felt since his coronation. Dressing as a king was not terribly comfortable. “And anyway you look like a --”

He turned, searching for a suitable comeback. They were in Anora’s rooms, since she had mirrors. She was looking into one now, pulling her hair out of the braids looped at the nape of her neck. Her hair spilled loose in long golden waves. 

Alistair could do little but gape at her. She was smiling playfully, ready for his retort. He realized she wasn’t wearing and rouge or kohl; with her hair down, she looked impossibly soft. 

“I think I’m offended,” she said finally, when Alistair couldn’t come up with anything. “I was hoping for schoolmarm, at least.” 

“I was trying to think of what a chevalier would say,” Alistair bluffed. He’d been noticing Anora more and more lately. It was confusing, to say the least. He found he quite liked her; she was much funnier than she let on, with a deadpan delivery that went over people’s heads most of the time. It reminded him a bit of Surana, and that was weird, too. He still missed her, but --

“Here,” Anora said, handing him a mask. “See if that’s comfortable.”

He tied it on; it was a simple bit of felt and leather that covered his eyes. Anora’s was more elaborate, with a sort of hat integrated into it. It was lavender, matching the trim on her dress. 

“Well?” she asked, twirling. “Do I look like a merchant’s wife, out for a bit of shopping?”

Alistair thought she looked more like a princess. Which was silly; she wasn’t a princess, she was a queen.  _ His  _ queen. He shoved that thought to the side. “Absolutely,” he said. 

They made their way into Alistair’s bedroom. There was, in fact, a secret passageway, accessed through a false door at the back of one of the wardrobes. Alistair had spent a very dusty, cobwebby afternoon exploring where it led. It turned out to go all sorts of places; the guest wing, the cellars, and finally outside the castle itself. 

So it was they emerged into an alley behind a stack of crates. Anora looked around, stumbling slightly on the uneven cobbles. Alistair put an arm out to steady her. Surprisingly, she didn’t move away once she found her balance, instead slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. 

_ It’s for the disguise, _ Alistair reminded himself. Still, he couldn’t deny it felt awfully good. 

“Where are we, do you suppose?”

“Just south of the river,” Alistair said. 

Anora gave him a skeptical look. “Alistair,” she said, voice heavy with accusation. “Have you been sneaking out of the castle alone?”

“What? No,” he lied. 

Anora gave him a slow blink.

“Look, I had to know where it came out, didn’t I? Anyway, I can take care of myself,” Alistair said, guessing at Anora’s implication that he could not.

“I know  _ that,”  _ Anora said, rolling her eyes. “But you’re not good at sneaking. And I’m the one that will have to come up with excuses if you get caught wandering around.” She tugged on his arm, walking them towards the street.

“Well I’m not skulking around the Pearl, am I?” Alistair said. 

Anora stopped short. “You’ve been to the Pearl? Wait, no, I don’t want to know,” she said, pulling him forward once again. 

The market was a sight. Banners and pennants strung so thick that it was almost like a roof, with swags of evergreens and winter berries on every post and column. It was crowded with vendors, many more than Alistair remembered. 

“Oh, it’s Direct From Orzammar,” he said, peering over the crowd at a dwarf hawking his wares. “He’s still here!”

“What?” Anora struggled to see what he was looking at.

“His name is Borim, or maybe Gorim? We met him when we were....” Alistair tried to think of a way to describe any of the things they’d done in Denerim without mentioning the criminal behavior. “Doing... Warden... things,” he said, looking everywhere but at Anora.

“Warden things like visiting the Pearl?” Anora raised an eyebrow. “Is he likely to recognize you?”

“Aha! No, ‘e eez not. For I am but a ‘umble chevalier from...” He scrambled to think of a place. “Val Gamord, wheech eez located near zee Gamordan Peaks, and ruled by Marquise Effiloche Bouffon,” he finished, triumphantly reciting a bit from his latest geography lesson.

Anora dissolved into laughter, coming dangerously close to giggles. “That is the  _ most  _ atrocious Orlesian accent I’ve ever heard,” she gasped.

“Ah, you wound me! I am wounded,” Alistair said, clutching his heart and switching to his finest Zevran impersonation. “Perhaps I am the rogue from Antiva City, who is most dashing, yes? I shall recite to you the many poems that are full of passion and dirty bits, and after serve to you the food that is too spicy to eat.”

Anora succumbed to another jag of laughter, dabbing at her eyes through her mask. “Well I won’t turn down the poetry,” she said, holding her hand to her stomach as she took a deep breath. “But let’s leave the spicy food  _ and  _ the accents for now, hmm?”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” Alistair grumbled, letting her lead him into the crowd.

Shopping was still a new concept for Alistair, or at least, shopping purely for pleasure. He found it was difficult to make up his mind, torn between his natural inclination towards thrift and the irrational desire to spend all his money at once. Anora largely let him be, meandering to nearby stalls but staying within visual reach. It wouldn’t do to get separated, after all. 

Alistair bought himself a silver hairbrush and a knitted sleeping cap and a bone-handled shaving kit. He agonized for so long over a chess set that the merchant gave him a discount, probably just to make him go away.

After that, he wandered about. He still had a lot of money left, but he didn’t really  _ need  _ much. Plus there were a lot of things that weren’t to his taste. It hit him as he was examining some ladies’ shoe buckles that nothing was stopping him from buying gifts for his friends. It was Satinalia, after all.

This was much more fun. He bought the buckles for Leliana, a golden halla statuette for Surana,  and an onyx dagger for Zevran. He circled back to the bookseller and bought a fancy scroll with gold handles for Wynne. Oghren was easy -- Alistair picked a bottle of liquor at random. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to get a gift to Sten, but he picked up a weird little demon totem anyway. 

He did not buy a present for Morrigan.

As he continued to shop, getting things for Eamon and Teagan, he caught sight of Anora at the next stall over. She was looking at something in a tray -- Alistair couldn’t see what it was -- and when the merchant asked her a question, Anora took a long time to shake her head. He quickly turned, not wanting to be caught looking. After waiting until Anora was a few dozen yards away, he investigated. 

He found a display of ladies’ combs and barrettes, all done up with ribbons and jewels and feathers. Anora had never worn anything like that, at least not that Alistair had seen. He hesitated. Should he buy one? After all, Anora was his  _ wife.  _ Granted, he wasn’t sure if they were even friends. They could be, maybe. Still, all those lessons about politics and etiquette weren’t for naught. Buying her a gift would be the right thing to do. Plus, he did like making her smile. 

“Can I help you, sir?” 

It was such a change to not hear  _ your majesty  _ that Alistair laughed. “Yes, I need to buy one of these for -- for my wife.” 

The merchant nodded patiently. “And would you like help picking one out? If you tell me her hair color, that’s a good place to start.”

It would’ve been easy to explain that Anora had just been there; the merchant was sure to know which she’d wanted. Somehow Alistair felt like that would be cheating, though. “Umm...” he said, stalling. One clip caught his eye. It was pale ivory, with amethyst and silver inlay and long streams of lavender ribbon. “That one,” he said. 

“Very nice, sir. I’ll just wrap it for you.”

Anora caught up to him a short while later. “Well?”

“I’m all set. You?”

“I am,” she confirmed. “We should be able to make it home by dinner, I think.”

“Will they notice we’ve been gone, you reckon?” Alistair asked as they strolled at the edge of the crowd.

“Not likely,” Anora said. “I gave strict orders that we weren’t to be disturbed.”

“Good thinking,” Alistair nodded. “Oh sweet Maker,” he said, spying someone across the square. “Come here, you have to hear this for yourself.”

They reached the gates to the Chantry. Outside stood an old woman, arms raised in supplication as she recited the chant.

“Andraste seeks an end to the buttering of the calamari,” she called out. “Great heroes beyond counting braised yolk and iron 'gainst grains of north-men, and walked the lonely worm-roads evermore.”

“Maker’s breath!” Anora whispered. “Is that-”

“Mighty of arm and warmest of tart,” the woman continued, “Rendered to crust. Bitter is farro, ate raw and often, poison that weakens and does not grill.”

“Sister Theohild,” Alistair said. “The one and only.”

Anora’s eyes were wide, visible even under the mask. “It’s... I’ve never heard anything like it.”

“I know!” Alistair said, giddy with excitement. 

“How does Perpetua stomach it?” Anora continued to peer at Theohild, not even a hint of a smile on her face.

“You did  _ not  _ just say that,” Alistair said. 

Anora didn’t look at him, but her lips tightened in a suppressed smile. 

“Come on,” he said, leading her back to the river. “Suddenly I’m famished.”

***

Anora followed Alistair through the dusty passages that led back to the castle. She was filled to the brim with a strange energy, bordering on nervous jitters. She wasn’t a fan of shopping normally, but it had been many years since she’d bothered. The market was rather spectacular this time of year, though. And of course the secrecy was exciting in its own way. 

But more than that, it had been  _ fun.  _ Fun was not in great supply in Anora’s life. Not to say she didn’t have activities that were enjoyable; she had her books and her journal, long walks in the gardens, regular concerts by the court musicians, a weekly massage and spa treatment. But none of these made her laugh, or filled her with excitement. 

_ Perhaps I should visit the markets more often.  _ The thought struck a sour note; it wasn’t the shopping that was fun, it was spending time with Alistair. 

The realization had her stumbling, and Alistair turned. “All right?” he asked, his hand extended, but not touching her.

“Yes,” she said, blinking up at him.

If he noticed her confusion, he made no sign. Instead he just turned and began walking again, a jaunty lilt to his step. 

Anora stared at his back, trying to find the thread in the welter of emotion bubbling up. When had she become so fond of him? She wasn’t sure. It was true, the last few weeks had been much easier. They had settled into a friendly, working relationship, at least. And she no longer dreaded seeing him at meals or in the throne room. The lessons were rewarding, of course -- it was satisfying to see Alistair grow into a competent king. But was there more to it than that? By the time they reached Alistair’s chambers, Anora was thoroughly muddled. 

“Home again, home again, jiggity jig,” Alistair said, holding his hand out to help Anora step out of the wardrobe.

“And here I forgot to buy the fat pig,” she said. 

“Well, there’s always next time.” Alistair set his purchases on a chair, along with his cloak.

Anora almost pointed out that “next time” would likely be a year away, since there wouldn’t be other opportunities to wander around with masks on until next Satinalia. But the thought of this made her strangely anxious; she didn’t want to wait a year. Maker, what was the matter with her? 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Alistair said, taking a step or two closer and peering at her in concern. “You look a little pale.”

He wasn’t standing particularly close; Anora was suddenly keenly aware of every inch of space between them. “Just tired,” she lied. “I-I think I’ll go lay down before dinner.” She stared at him, willing her feet to carry her out of the room; the mutinous things didn’t seem to be listening, as she stayed rooted to the spot.

Alistair shifted his weight as if to step nearer, raising a hand as if to put it on her shoulder. But he did neither of these, instead rocking backwards to give her more room and bringing his hand up to rub the back of his neck. “Shall I call a healer?”

Anora wanted to scream, or laugh, or cry, or maybe all three at once.  _ Of course he’s afraid to touch you now; you’ve spent the past two months pushing him away.  _ It had been so easy in the market to take his arm; now, however, it seemed impossible again.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, rousing herself. “Thank you.” Her feet finally deigned to obey, and she took a few steps towards the door.

Relieved, Alistair nodded. “See you at dinner, then?”

Anora nodded as well, murmuring some automatic polite response or other as she fled to her own rooms. 

Once she was safely alone, she blew air out her lips, shaking her head. She hadn’t been this confused since she’d been a girl. Ringing the bell for her maid, she ordered a hot bath.

As the water was brought in, Anora unpacked the parcels from her shopping trip. She’d bought a few odds and ends for herself, the kinds of things she could consume -- a few sweets, some deeply scented soap, a new perfume. The last parcel she did not unwrap, instead weighing it in her hand. It was a small silverite statue of a griffon. 

It had been a snap decision to buy it for Alistair; she hadn’t even really thought about it. Anora guessed that he liked such things; she’d seen a small display of similar trinkets on the mantelpiece in his room, along with a dried rose. Perhaps she’d been caught up in the rhythm of the market, or maybe she’d been too deeply invested in the illusion that they were a married couple --

_ But you  _ **_are_ ** _ a married couple.  _ She laughed aloud at the thought, and the chambermaids stopped what they were doing and stared at her.

“Sorry, just thought of something funny,” Anora said. “I think that’s plenty of water, thank you. In fact, I don’t think I’ll need anything else today. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”

The women thanked her, bowing gratefully. Anora always made sure her staff had one morning and one evening off every week, plus one full day every month, but she’d never met anyone who turned down the chance to skive off early. 

She removed the lavender-trimmed gown, carefully smoothing the fabric as she draped it over the back of an armchair. It was old, from the days when she had first married Cailan, when she had still tried to dress in a way that would catch his eye, thinking that she could stand in for at least some of the many other women that had graced his bedchamber. Completely ineffective, of course, and she abandoned the strategy. Still, the dress had served its purpose for the day, helping her blend in at the market. And she hoped that it had contributed at least a little to the stupefied look on Alistair’s face when he’d first seen her in it, though that could’ve been from any number of things.

The bath was a welcome distraction from the chaos still raging in her mind. She tried one of the new soaps, the smell of rose heavy in the air. That, too, was a change. Anora usually favored light, bright scents; heavy florals were too soft and romantic for her. This, though, she liked, sliding the soapy cloth along her arm. She absolutely refused to think about the rose that Alistair had on his mantlepiece; the decision to buy the soap was her own, not influenced by any of Alistair’s tastes. 

Though, if he  _ did  _ enjoy the scent, would it be so terrible? Now that the initial confusion had waned, she wondered: was it such a bad thing, to be fond of him? He was handsome, after all, and sweet, in his own way. And much smarter than she’d originally thought. Plus he was funny, and what’s more, he laughed at  _ her  _ jokes, something Cailan had never managed. 

For a few moments, she relaxed into a pleasant daydream. Though she and Alistair couldn’t go back to the market, there were other things they could do together. Walks in the garden, for instance; would he enjoy that? She wasn’t sure. She’d seen him buy a chess set; maybe they could play games? Would he be competitive, a sore loser? Was he any good? It was easy to imagine that they were evenly matched, smiling to herself as she pictured them trading jibes playfully. Or maybe he would be quiet and thoughtful, staring hard at the board as he planned his next move, rubbing his thumb along his lower lip the way he did when he was deep in thought.

Anora snapped herself out of that particular line of thought, sitting up in the water. Not that she still considered it distasteful to think about Alistair in that light, but something held her back.  _ You don’t even know who he bought the chess set for.  _

Though the water was still very warm, Anora shivered at the realization. Alistair had bought a number of things that were clearly meant as gifts. Out of idle curiosity, Anora had watched what he was buying. She hadn’t caught everything, but there were several items that were obviously meant for ladies -- shoe buckles, something from the stall with the barrettes and ribbons. Perhaps the chess set had been for a lady as well.

A lump began to grow in Anora’s chest. As delightful as it was to imagine them becoming closer, she knew there was no guarantee Alistair would see her in the same way. Indeed, it was likely he wouldn’t; she was ten years older, after all. Not to mention the fact that she’d spent so long treating him like an unwanted guest. Just because they were getting along now didn’t mean he’d ever  _ want  _ her. 

Especially not if he was buying things for other women. Anora was positive he’d had no guests in his rooms since he’d arrived, and Alistair’s reaction to the idea, comical as it was at the time, now seemed to confirm that he was interested in someone else. That would explain the rose as well. Perhaps one of his former companions? The bard had been very pretty, and the apostate as well. And the admiration Alistair had for the Hero of Ferelden was obvious from a mile away -- perhaps it was more than hero worship? 

If that was the case, Anora despaired of ever claiming Alistair’s attention. Warden Surana had been practically Anora’s opposite: short, with a muscular, androgynous build, dark skin and close-cropped hair. 

Anora finished her bath and dried off with a brisk hand, suddenly cold. Silly of her to get so carried away in girlish daydreams. Perhaps she and Alistair would grow closer together, and perhaps they wouldn’t. Mooning about would be nothing but a distraction. Ferelden needed her to have a level head, not starry-eyed over her husband. 

She dressed, selecting one of the staid, modest dresses she normally favored, then winding her hair into a bun. The lavender gown she hung in the very back of the wardrobe. She wouldn’t be needing it again for a long time; it had been a costume, nothing more. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancing, Satinalia, and gifts.

Alistair was no stranger to fear. He’d faced demons, broodmothers, werewolves, and Morrigan’s razor-sharp tongue. These had nothing on the prospect of dancing at the Satinalia feast.

“Sorry, sorry,” he groaned, nearly stepping on Anora’s foot for the third time in the last ten minutes. “I know you said left, I’ll get it next time,” he promised.

“It’s fine,” Anora said, her smile stiff. She’d been more standoffish since their trip to the market five days ago, to the point where Alistair had begun to think he’d imagined certain things. 

The Anora from the market had been quicker to laugh and free with -- well, if not affection, then at least the illusion of it. Alistair could still remember how it felt when she’d tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. Like she wanted to be close to him. 

The Anora that stood in front of him now held him at arm’s length, literally. As they practiced dancing, she kept at least a foot between them at all times, only touching him where absolutely necessary. And Alistair could see she was frustrated; her jaw worked ceaselessly, as if she was grinding her teeth.

“Let’s just try one more time,” she said, and though her voice was patient, it was also strained.

“I’m so sorry,” Alistair said again. He didn’t know what had changed, but he suspected it was his fault. “I have two left feet.”

“You’re fine,” Anora assured him. “How about this -- I’ll practice beside you for a few moments.”

Alistair wasn’t sure that would make any difference, but he played along. Amazingly, it helped; he managed to watch her feet and mimic her steps, rather than trying to mirror her. 

“Good,” she said after a few minutes. “Now, let’s try it again normally. Don’t look down, this time, and pretend -- pretend we’re sparring, and you’re on the offensive.” 

They began again. Alistair kept his eyes trained on Anora’s face. This was much easier; Alistair was able to pull off a basic waltz. He started to grin. “It  _ is  _ a bit like sparring, isn’t it?”

Anora looked relieved. “I wouldn’t know,” she said, her jaw no longer clenched. “Now, keep doing this, but move me in a circle.”

It was more difficult, and it took a few starts and stops, but eventually Alistair was leading her in a wide arc, moving across the room. “I think I’m actually starting to like this,” he said. 

“Well, you’re already ahead of Bann Teagan,” Anora noted. “Are you ready for the last bit?”

“No,” Alistair said. “Let’s try it anyway.”

“Push your hand against mine, so we twirl,” she instructed.

Alistair wasn’t sure he understood, but he tried it. “Oh, I- oh!” he exclaimed in delight, spinning her about. “I think I’m doing it!” 

The key was the momentum of the twirl, Alistair realized. Almost a swooping motion -- for once, swooping wasn’t a bad thing. They waltzed at a brisk tempo, since there was no music. By the time they completed a circuit of the room, Alistair was a little dizzy, and he laughed as he fought to keep his balance when they stopped.

Anora was smiling, the warmest he’d seen since the market. Her cheeks were faintly flushed, too, and her lips parted from the mild exertion. Somehow, in all of the twirling and spinning, they’d moved closer together, his hand now at the small of her back rather than the side of her waist. 

Maker, she was beautiful. Alistair wanted to kiss her. He wasn’t  _ going  _ to, of course; he was fairly certain she didn’t want that. For a little while there, especially recently, he’d given it some thought (okay, a lot of thought). And shouldn’t he think about it? Anora was his wife, after all, and it’s not like his crush on Surana had been anything but one-sided -- she’d made that very clear. 

Still, in the days since they’d snuck out of the castle, he’d tried to put it from his mind. Alistair remembered their conversation in his rooms a few weeks ago, when she’d asked him about his tastes. She’d revealed nothing about her own. Maybe she didn’t fancy men. Or if she did, there was nothing saying she’d want him in particular. Plus he was pretty sure she saw him as an overgrown teenager.

Though, she wasn’t looking at him like a child now, was she? Her smile had faded, but she was still staring up at him. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought her expression to be apprehensive. It was inconceivable that she would be scared of anything, much less him.

His hand flexed against her back and she leaned closer, enough that she was pressed against him lightly. They stood like that for a long moment, though neither of them managed to catch their breath.

Outside, the bell tolled five times. The sun would soon set; dinner was in an hour. “We -” Alistair’s voice was hoarse, cracking on the word. “We should go,” he whispered. He didn’t want to go -- he wanted nothing of the sort. But the prolonged contact was making it harder to cling to whatever shreds of sense he had; the idea of kissing her was rapidly starting to seem like a good one.

Anora’s brows knit together in a tiny flinch. “If that’s what you want,” Anora whispered, nodding slightly. 

Alistair blinked rapidly as she moved away, involuntarily leaning after her, chasing that closeness. He was left off-balance, stumbling to right himself; before he could question what had just happened, Anora was gone in a swirl of skirts.

Dinner was a long affair. As it was the night before Satinalia, they hosted several important nobles for a more “intimate” meal than the feast proper. 

There was nothing intimate about it, though. Alistair was at one end of a long table, Anora at the other, and between them sat a score of guests, ten to a side. Alistair could hardly even see her through the candelabras and centerpieces of holly and pine boughs. 

He knew she looked beautiful, though. They’d “arrived” together, meeting in the antechamber a few minutes prior to being announced by the steward. She was wearing red velvet, the dress cut lower than the ones she normally favored, all trimmed in cream satin along the neckline. And she’d done something to her lips; they looked wine-stained.

In combination, the effect was stunning. Alistair did his best to modulate his expression -- ogling the queen in front of the steward didn’t seem a good idea -- but it was not an easy thing. Not that Anora herself seemed to notice; she hardly glanced at Alistair. She seemed nervous, which was surprising. Normally Anora was the picture of calm before state events. Now, however, she tugged at her dress, played with her fingernails, looked up at the ceiling as if seeing it for the first time.

Alistair wasn’t sure what the matter was, but with the steward there, he certainly wasn’t going to ask. When it was time to go in, Anora took his hand, holding his fingertips at shoulder level, the way they always did when they were announced. Her fingers were ice cold. 

Whatever was wrong, it was clearly troubling her deeply. As the steward announced their names to the waiting throng, Alistair ran his thumb over her knuckles, squeezing slightly in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. Apparently it was a major gaffe; Anora actually turned and looked at him, confusion making a momentary appearance in her expression before she regained control.

And so the night progressed. Alistair chatted with Eamon and Teagan, sitting nearest to him. It was hard to pay attention, though. Anora’s strange behavior weighed on him. Was she upset with him? That was always a possibility. But she didn’t seem angry -- she seemed nervous. And Alistair couldn’t conceive of that having anything to do with him.

Slowly it dawned on him that maybe Anora was nervous because of one of the guests. Maybe there was someone here that she was interested in? She’d said before that she didn’t have a -- he couldn’t bring himself to think the word  _ lover  _ \-- but maybe she wanted one? That would explain the outfit, at any rate. It was certainly alluring.

Alistair was too far to see what was happening at Anora’s end of the table. There was a fair amount of laughter though. He wasn’t even sure who sat near her; Anora had done the seating arrangements. 

Finally, the meal ended. The men retired to the study for brandy and pipes, while the women went... wherever they always went after meals, Alistair had no idea. Alistair didn’t stay long; it was traditional for the monarch to have one brandy and leave the others to the comfort of the castle. Alistair took the smallest glass he could reasonably accept and snuck out at the first opportunity.

Back in his quarters, Alistair changed into his pajamas. He was deeply unsettled by the thought that Anora might’ve been trying to attract someone else. He had absolutely no standing to be jealous, he knew. And it wasn’t jealousy, exactly. It was more the feeling of not being good enough, and his own loneliness, and envy that Anora was able to have that kind of experience when he couldn’t seem to manage it. 

After a half hour, it became almost intolerable. He felt seasick from doubt. If only he knew she wasn’t interested in him that way, he could move on. Maybe the best thing would be to just say that. Get it out in the open. It was probably breaking all sorts of rules of etiquette, but better that then spend a night sleepless.

But what was he supposed to do? Should he send for her? Was he allowed to knock on the shared door? They’d never discussed it. 

After another few minutes of fretting, he made up his mind. He retrieved the wrapped gift from the top drawer of his desk. After taking a deep breath and letting it out, he knocked on their shared door.

***

It took a moment for the sound of the quiet knock to register. Anora was at her dressing table, almost in tears. Her night had been miserable. Hell, the last few days had been miserable too. 

She’d been shocked to discover that she wasn’t able to simply will herself to stop pining over Alistair. She rapidly cycled through amusement, to frustration, to something resembling despair. Never in her adult life had she lost control of her emotions like this; she felt like she was fifteen again. It was  _ awful.  _

Anora had thought the low point was the night before, during the dancing lesson. She’d been trying so hard to maintain her distance, not wanting to force Alistair’s attention. But then she got carried away. By Andraste, she’d wanted to kiss him so badly at the end. Her heart had almost stopped when he’d said  _ we should go.  _ A clear dismissal, even if it was a gentle one.  __

After that, Anora knew that she needed to drop the whole thing. And yet when the time had come to ready herself for dinner, she’d selected one of her most daring gowns, telling herself that it would do her good to feel beautiful, adding stain to her lips. And she had felt beautiful, right up until she was about to step into the antechamber and caught her reflection in a dark window. Suddenly she no longer felt beautiful; she felt desperate, tarting herself up in hopes of catching Alistair’s eye. It was beneath her. If she’d had time to go back and change, she would have.

Alas, it was too late. She had no choice but to suffer through dinner, caught between feeling foolish and hopeless. The after-dinner wine and dessert with the noblewomen was skipped altogether; easy enough to plead headache. The gown had been yanked off and tossed in the corner, and she’d scrubbed her face and brushed out her hair.

And now, still at her dressing table in her nightgown, a knock from Alistair. Maker, what did he want? For a moment she despaired that he would see her in this state, but then she decided it wouldn’t matter. 

Alistair was in pajamas, holding a parcel wrapped in cheery fabric. “Er. Sorry, I know it’s late. I just....” His words faltered, and he thrust the package at her. “I know Satinalia isn’t until tomorrow, but I thought I’d give this to you now. Wasn’t sure, um, if I’d get another chance, what with everything going on.”

Anora blinked at him. “You got me a gift?”

Alistair bit his lip. “Is... that not done? I didn’t know, so... you don’t have to take it,” he said, starting to lower his hand.

“No, no, it’s... I have something for you too,” Anora admitted. “Come in,” she said, holding the door wide.

Alistair stepped over the threshold and looked around while Anora rushed to retrieve her own gift from her desk. A jittery hope had bubbled up in her chest, which she frantically tried to quash.  _ Just because he bought you a gift doesn’t mean he wants more.  _

He was still standing in the middle of the room. “It’s very cozy,” he said.

“I find it comfortable,” Anora said. She gestured to the settee. “Here, let’s sit.”

Alistair dutifully sat, keeping a respectful few inches of space between them. “Is it okay? That I knocked, I mean. I wasn’t sure,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Anora said.

“Er, wasn’t sure if, um, you, might be, ah, otherwise entertaining.” He went beet red, delivering the words to the ceiling.

Anora couldn’t help but laugh, a nervous  _ ha!  _ bursting from her lips. “Not an issue,” she said. 

“Oh, um. Well. Sorry, probably shouldn’t have brought it up. None of my business. I just --” Alistair shrugged.

“Here,” Anora said, pushing the packet into his hands. She really didn’t want to go down this particular conversational avenue. “You first.”

“You sure?” he asked, even as he untied the yarn holding it closed. 

Anora held her breath as he unwrapped the griffon. Would he like it? Maybe it was too thoughtless; just because there was a griffon on the Warden armor didn’t mean Alistair liked them.

And yet, his delight was obvious. Alistair actually gasped when he saw it. “Maker, this is -- this is beautiful,” he marveled, bringing it up close so he could examine the detail. “Thank you,” he said, turning to look at her with shining eyes.

“You’re welcome,” Anora squeaked, feeling her chest constrict a little. 

“This is completely inadequate in comparison,” Alistair fretted, handing her his present. 

Anora opened it, mentally making a note to give Alistair some tips on how to give a gift. He downplayed the present the whole time she was unwrapping: “I know it’s not what you usually -- I mean, I just thought -- you don’t need to wear it,” he said finally, wincing.

It was the hair clip she’d been looking at in the market stall. The lavender one, the one she’d convinced herself she didn’t need, even though it reminded her of her youth and better days. She stared at it, blinking in disbelief. 

This sent Alistair into another spiral of deprecation. “I know it’s just a -- well, it’s not proper jewelry, is it? But I thought, you looked so pretty in the lavender, and your hair is so lovely -- I know you don’t wear it down, but maybe --”

“I love it,” Anora whispered. Then she parsed what Alistair had been saying. “You thought I looked pretty?” Her jaw clenched and she squeezed her eyes shut, ashamed at how pathetic she sounded.

“I thought you looked beautiful,” Alistair said quietly. “And tonight, as well. You always look beautiful,” he added.

It hardly seemed real. Anora looked at him, half-afraid he was joking. His face was full of honesty and hope and apprehension. For once, Anora couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Alistair rushed to fill the silence. “Um, actually, I have to make a confession. I mean, I did want to give you a gift, I wasn’t lying,” he said, as if Anora was about to accuse him of duplicity. “But I wanted to tell you, or ask you, or....” He bit his lip before rushing on. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I know you have no reason to -- I don’t expect anything. But I’m not good at pretending, and if you’re not interested, that’s fine, I just wanted to, um, let you know,” he said.

Anora realized she was shaking. “I can’t stop thinking about you either.” 

“What, really?” Alistair seemed confused by this statement. 

“I didn’t think....” Anora shook her head, not wanting to put words to her fears:  _ I didn’t think you’d want me.  _ “I didn’t think you’d be interested.” 

“I wanted to kiss you. Yesterday, I mean,” he blurted out.

“Why didn’t you?” 

Alistair glanced at her lips. “Um. I-I’ve never,” he stammered. 

It took Anora a moment to realize there wasn’t more to the phrase. “You’ve never kissed anyone? Ever? I thought you said that you’d....” She stopped, remembering what he’d actually said when she’d asked whether he was experienced:  _ Basically. I don’t want to talk about it. _

He looked so ashamed of himself that Anora immediately regretted her words. “I’m sorry,” she said. 

“No, it’s... I suppose I should tell you. I had to -- Maker, I don’t even know how to say this. And I can’t tell you everything. But just before Surana and I battled the archdemon, I had to -- um. There was a ritual. With Morrigan. I didn’t want to, but if I didn’t, then Surana or I would have to die to vanquish the archdemon. Surana convinced me to do it. I didn’t want to,” he said again, almost pleading with Anora. 

Anora put a hand over his. She didn’t understand the details, but it was clear that the ritual had been sexual in nature, and that it had not been a good experience. She felt faintly ill thinking about it. “I’m sorry you went through that,” she said gently. “And I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Oh, I want to,” he said quickly. “Er. I mean -- that came out wrong.”

Anora smiled, slightly overwhelmed. It was so much to take in. The motion of Alistair’s thumb sliding over her knuckles registered through the welter of thoughts. He’d done it earlier too, throwing Anora into a spiral of confusion. Now, however, the intent was more clear.

Given what he’d just told her, Anora erred on the side of caution. “As long as you’re comfortable.”

His answer was to lean towards her, albeit in fits and starts. She did as well; after all, she wanted this, more than she liked to admit. They met somewhere in the middle. The kiss was both chaste and lingering. Anora was relieved to find that it was nothing whatsoever like kissing Cailan. 

Alistair drew back slightly. He seemed unsure of what to do next. 

So Anora kissed him again, guiding them into something deeper, letting herself get a lost in Alistair’s breath and lips and teeth. He was so gentle, so sweet that it was a little dizzying, especially knowing it was the first time Alistair had kissed anyone. 

And then he brought a hand up to cup her cheek, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Anora’s neck. She gasped, a shuddering exhale as something in her core began to uncoil and melt. 

Alistair made a tiny sound of surprise and satisfaction against her lips, almost a question. That, too, was intoxicating. 

_ Maker, I could get used to this, _ she thought. In the back of her mind, she began to wonder what kind of lover he would be; with so little experience, Anora knew it was likely to be awkward and perhaps not mind-blowing, but she was certainly looking forward to finding out.

Confusingly, Alistair broke the kiss a moment later, panting slightly. HIs eyes were a little wild.

“Are you alright?” Anora asked.

“Yes. It’s just -- I mean,” Alistair scrunched his eyes shut and huffed a sigh, resetting himself. “I don’t want to -- I mean, I like this. I like this a lot. But can we, um, stop?”

Anora had been expecting him to say  _ move this to the bedroom.  _ It took her a second to parse his actual words. “You want to  _ stop?” _

“Well, let’s be honest, a part of me doesn’t want to stop. At all. But also -- Maker, this is -- can’t I court you, first?”

“You want to  _ court  _ me?” Anora blinked at him in wonder. 

Alistair blushed a deep crimson. “That’s stupid, isn’t it. We’re already married. Andraste’s knickers, why do I ever open my --”

Anora put a finger over his lips, hushing him. “Yes. You may court me,” she said, biting her lip. 

“You don’t think it’s stupid? It’s just, I never got the chance, so....” He shrugged, then looked up at her, his eyes wide and sad and hopeful.

“I think it’s very sweet. And I never got the chance to be courted, either. It’ll be a first for both of us.” 

“Oh good,” Alistair said, slumping in relief. “Well. Um. I suppose I should be, er, getting back. It’s very late.” He made no move to go, glancing down at her lips as if suddenly wishing he hadn’t called things to a halt so soon.

“Can I have a good night kiss, at least?” Anora said, raising an eyebrow. “Just one?”

“Just one,” Alistair agreed, nodding. “That’s allowed, right?”

“Absolutely,” Anora said. And it was, after all, just one kiss. One very long kiss, very passionate kiss.

***

The feast of Satinalia was always a festive occasion, whether in times of plenty or times of want. At the castle, the celebration was the most joyous it had been in years. True, the feast itself was somewhat lean -- it would be a few years before the farmsteads recovered from the blight, after all -- but the prospect of lasting peace on the horizon made up for it. And the music was merry, the dancing joyful, and the toasts plentiful even if the wine was watered down.

The courtiers set themselves to whispering when Queen Anora arrived on King Alistair’s arm. She was dressed in a simple gown, cream trimmed with lavender, far too simple for the occasion. And her hair! It cascaded down her back, long and loose, adorned with only a comb and some ribbons. She looked nothing like a Queen. She looked like a merchant’s wife, out for a day of shopping. It was all very shocking.

But what really set the tongues to wag was not her clothes, but her expression. She was  _ smiling --  _ beaming, in fact. She actually  _ laughed in delight  _ as the King spun her around the room, even as they blundered through the steps of the dance. The King smiled too, and laughed, his eyes rarely leaving her face. A rumor quickly spread that one of the serving girls had seen them in the antechamber before arriving, and that they had been  _ holding hands.  _

These rumors were quickly put to rest when the King and Queen retired for the evening. Alistair rose from his seat at the feast table and held out his hand, leaning close to say something to her. She took his hand, rising to her feet. They walked the length of the room, hand in hand, smiling at each other, looking nothing like a king and queen, and all the happier for it.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. :)


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